Love tastes like Strawberries
by Yggdrasil'sRoots
Summary: Stiles has been planning his tattoos for months, and he ends up with some unexpected side affects.


_**This has been written in bits and pieces over the course of a few weeks, and edited into a decent flow to the best of my ability. I hope you enjoy this, I'm actually very proud of this one. **_

_**Disclaimer: if I owned teen wolf Dylan would spend hours in make up having tattoos drawn on. **_

Stiles has always been fascinated by tattoos. His mother had some, he remembers; a small hawk taking to wing across her shoulder blade, foreign words scrawled elegantly across her wrists, peculiar symbols that he didn't understand patterning her ribs, that he used to follow the lines of with his tiny fingers as a child. His father has exactly one; Stiles' mother's name is traced across the delicate skin on his wrist, his veins visible under it. It moves with the clench of his fingers and the drag of tendons under weather worn skin, but retains its beauty, maybe because it is well loved, and well tended.

Scott's tattoo, Stiles remembers, was received in a less conventional manner, fire and white hot agony rather than the constant, vibrating scratch of a tattooist's steady needle. But the solid, firm lines are perhaps a more meaningful message now, their meaning etched into his skin with the memory of the blinding sensation.

Derek hadn't bothered hiding his tattoo, but it had still taken Stiles a while to discover it.

The broad, strong pattern of the triskelion spans the middle of Derek's back, and ripples with the motion of his muscles, a movement which Stiles has trouble tearing his eyes from. But the three whorls of the tattoo call to Stiles, and he contemplates getting a triskelion of his own.

When he goes to the tattoo artist the month before he turns eighteen, he originally plans a half sleeve of symbols and runes, oddly twisting patterns which to a regular human would look odd and tribal, but to any supernaturally aware being, would speak of power, protection and the potential for damage if need be. The artist gives him an odd look, but suggests expanding across Stiles' back and chest. Stiles agrees, he likes the idea, and adds on some defensive spells, alongside a hawk bearing his mother's name, and his father's on a scroll clutched in its talons. He adds in his pack's names, in a lofty rise across his chest, under his heart, and feels a pleasant weight settle in his ribs at the addition. In the end he has a curling, beautiful beast of a tattoo, which gives off throbbing, heavy sparks of power, and Stiles knows how powerful it will be. Money is very little concern, he has been saving for months and months, and despite the fact that the tattoo will take weeks of extensive sessions, he is excited, an odd combination, but the fizzing sensation in his stomach is akin to the anticipation he felt when Lydia hooked her arm into his at prom.

The runes and symbols and drawings and pieces of other's tattoos will hold so much power, and even when he looks at the drawings, he feels magic drift along his tongue while he speaks, describing how he wants an aspect with hay and gunpowder tastes rolling around in his mouth with a hazy, idle motion. The artist finally finishes the drawing the weekend before his birthday, and he schedules Stiles for the morning of his birthday, an early appointment to accommodate the six hours of needlework he will undergo, and this way he has time to attend his birthday party that he definitely doesn't know Lydia has forced Scott into organising. But he casually drops in the fact of his appointment, and Derek offers to come with him, citing a desire to see if he faints. He wryly refuses, stating he wants them to see the finished thing once it has healed properly. Derek shrugs, but Stiles knows him well enough by now that he can see the burning curiosity in his green eyes. He prods Derek in the ribs, smirking and making a dirty joke instead of taunting him, promising he can see it first. Scott protests, calling best friend privilege, and it descends into an all out pillow fight, from which no clear winner emerges, unless you count Lydia perching in the armchair, utterly unruffled and reading an old book avidly.

Which Stiles does, because as far as they are concerned, Lydia will always be the winner, because she is Lydia. That's just how she functions.

The day of his birthday rolls around, and he hops into his jeep, gunning it and driving to the tattoo parlour. He fidgets nervously, ten minutes early for his appointment, but Adam finishes with his customer early. She is small, petite, and a romping wolf is sprawling lazily in the swell of her hip. Stiles thinks it's beautiful, and it reminds him of the wolf worked into his own, so he breathes an awed remark in her direction, and matches her bright smile with one of his own. She flashes a grin at Adam, high fives him in a way that suggests familiarity, and leaves.

"My sister." Adam explains, settling into his chair and screwing a new needle into his machine. He scoops up the pot of ink he will be using for today, and motions for Stiles to remove his shirt. They are doing his shoulder and chest today, and Stiles is buzzing, looking forward to the drag of the needle over his skin.

"Her tattoo is gorgeous." He says, slightly muffled as he yanks his shirt over his head. He flops down in the chair and relaxes, heat pooling comfortably in his stomach as Adam presses a wipe to his skin to disinfect it, and then lays the template to his skin and wets it down. He sits perfectly still for a moment, waiting until Adam peels it away.

"Go and see if it's where you want it." He says, and Stiles carefully swings himself around to stare in the mirror.

The deep purple lines of the stencil are dark against his pale skin, and the triskelion and the pack's names loop perfectly where he wants them. There are runes of protection and power amplification perfectly woven in around the celtic symbol, and they look even more exotic on his skin than they did on the drawing. He can feel power flickering tightly behind his belly button, and he also feels the pack bonds solidify slightly in his mind.

"Perfect." He says, dropping carefully into the chair. Adam leans it backwards, easing him down until he is horizontal and the tattooist can easily reach all of him. He snaps on a fresh pair of gloves, and reaches for his machine.

"Ready?" Adam asks, and, more calmly than Stiles thought he would feel, he replies in the positive.

The first touch of the needle to his skin is excruciatingly wonderful, and he lets out a gasp that would have been a moan had he been able to find his voice at all. Adam flicks him a glance and he nods gingerly, a _keep going_ obvious in his expression.

The next six hours are the most uncomfortable and peaceful hours he thinks he has ever had, an odd, contrasting mix that he finds weirdly alluring.

He keeps still under the needle and drifts in and out of paying attention, concentrating on the pull and scratch and vibrations of the machine and the needle against his skin, as Adam guides it carefully around the marks on his skin to give him permanent ones instead.

The six hours is over alarmingly fast, and Adam smears on ointment, telling him to make another appointment for two weeks time. He wraps the tattoo, and Stiles slowly tugs on his shirt, feeling the stretch and burn of the new wounds.

He is in his jeep when the feeling starts, an overwhelming _knowledge. _He pulls over, turns his jeep off, and rests his forehead against the wheel, feeling a tingly sensation sneak its way along the lines of his tattoos, and suddenly he is in Erica's head. She feels like sugar and leather, and he briefly manages to wonder what the ever loving fuck is going on, before he is sulked into her thoughts.

_I wonder if Stiles is having fun right now?_ She is thinking. _I wish he had taken someone with him. _

Before he has time to be touched by that, he is wrenched by something that seems to originate in his ribcage, tugged into Boyd's head, and overwhelmed by vanilla.

_Lydia said the cupcakes should be over there. _He is thinking. _But I think they look good here too. I wonder if she'll skin me and turn me into a rug?_

Stiles is shoved ruthlessly back into himself, gasping. His breaths stretch the skin where his new tattoos are, generating a comforting, warm wash of power that he thinks maybe he could get used to.

It takes him a good while to steady himself enough to drive, and when he does, he speeds straight home and clatters to his room.

"Stiles?" His dad calls. He is in the kitchen, and Stiles practically tears his room apart, in search of a long sleeved shirt. His dad comes in just as the shirt is settling on his hips, a smile glued to his lips.

"Hey, Dad."

" How'd it go?" The sheriff asks.

"Great, actually, I just wish it could all be done now.". Stiles sulks, trying to hide how spooked he is.

"Patience, kiddo." The Sheriff smirks. "You're lucky, you have your mother's weirdo super healing. I spent three weeks waiting for the scabs to peel off this." He holds up his wrist, displaying the name written on in deep flowing script.

"I guess. I'm just impatient."

His father keeps telling him off for scratching. He can't help it, it isn't just the healing process. There is power under his skin, beating in every thumping his heart, and every breath he takes forces it through his blood.

The party consists of everyone trying to get him out of his clothes so they can see the tattoo. It doesn't work. Derek pouts. Stiles shamelessly crows his victory, which of course, prompts another session of 'spot the tattoo'.

It still doesn't work. Stiles is well practised at wiggling out of the grip of werewolves, and it is easy as pie when none of them want to catch the sore parts and hurt him.

When Stiles is fed up with the itching, inability to scratch properly, and wearing clothes to cover up his tattoo, he huffs a sigh and scratches gently at a peeling strip of black that finally, _finally_, comes away from his skin, and he calls, makes an appointment and goes back to the parlour.

He saunters into the parlour, waves at Jen the receptionist, and waits for Adam to call him over. When he does, Stiles strips off his shirt quickly, and lies where Adam indicates, on his side. His arm is nudged up and he holds still while the template is splayed carefully over his skin. Adam repeats the routine of needle, gloves, and ink.

"This bit kills like a bitch, I'm afraid." Adam shoots Stiles an amused smile, and sets the needle to skin.

Again, Stiles feels the same pull out of his own head, but not as strong, the sharp pinching on his ribs familiar and welcome. Uncomfortable, but bearable, pressing into the space between his ribs. Then Adam moves to over bone, and white light flares behind his eyelids. He flinches slightly but Adam has already pulled away and nothing is messed up.

"You good?" Adam asks him. He nods, because he can already taste hay and gunpowder, and Adam sets needle back to skin.

Again, the session passes in a blur of thick magical flavours and discomfort. He manages to steer his jeep into a secluded area before the sensation hits this time.

He has two thirds of his tattoo completed, and power is a near constant thrum under his skin, beating like a tiny bird's heart against his throat.

This, of course, means that the sensation is intensified, much stronger than last time, and he finds himself lurking in the corner of Isaac's, then Scott's, then Lydia's minds, without any of them really seeming to notice. He is left gasping for air, the new tattoos burning subtly across his ribcage and hip where the end of a rune curls over the edge of the bone there. At the moment his tattoo covers the front of his shoulder, and is down to his elbow. It also covers one pectoral muscle entirely and tapers down the side of his ribs to his hipbone to end in a point.

He can feel the threads of the pack in his mind, Erica and Boyd's have strengthened gradually since the first weird mind hop, and now he can feel Lydia and Scott and Isaac more strongly, a feeling he supposes will grow over time.

Maybe it'll be like werewolf GPS and he'll be able to keep track of them better.

He puts the keys in the ignitions again and drives home, and he is about to text Scott to see where he is when his earlier thought about GPS returns.

_Could I? _He thinks. He searches in his mind for the thread that leads to Scott, and imagines it like a rail track, a trick Deaton taught him. He sends his consciousness along it like a train, and slips into Scott's head easily.

He is with Derek, at the loft.

Stiles pulls back rapidly, trembling slightly.

His skin is tingling, pleasantly laden with potential energy and overly warm, too.

He takes a moment to breath, and to smooth some ointment into the parts of his tattoos that are nearly healed, which wipes any of the sensation he felt previously from the skin. He sighs in relief, because while the power is a rush, and heady, it gets overwhelming afterwards.

If it is like this now, he can't imagine what the finished thing will feel like.

So far he has ended up in Scott, Lydia, Isaac, Erica and Boyd's heads, and he has Derek and Cora left, as well as Jackson. He doesn't feel a thread connecting him to Peter, which worries him, as he can't keep track if him, but he obviously is relieved beyond measure that there is nothing tying him to the man.

He experimentally reaches out to Scott's thread and tugs gently. Half a moment later, Scott has texted him.

_What was that, Stiles? What did you do? I felt something really weird just now._

He texts back that he's on his way, and that he'll probably explain when he gets there, even though he has not intention of doing so just yet. So he hops back in his jeep, and drives to the loft, hoping that Scott doesn't chew him out too much.

Walking into the loft, he braces himself for an over eager Scott pawing for answers.

What he gets instead is an ashen werewolf, staring at him.

"Stiles. What was that? It was like someone had squeezed my heart."

Stiles immediately feels guilty as all hell, but his tattoo isn't even complete yet, and he is still learning after all.

"It turns out that my tattoo strengthens the pack bonds. And that I can manipulate them or see where you are and how you're feeling and stuff. And it isn't even complete yet." Stiles rubs the toe of his shoe on the ground. "I shouldn't have played around without talking to Deaton, or you guys." He avoids Scott's gaze, only looking up when Scott grabs his chin.

"It didn't feel bad. It was almost reassuring, I just wasn't expecting it, Stiles." Scott is doing some weird alpha gaze that is making Stiles feel like a scolded child. "Has it happened with anyone else?"

Stiles nods and tells him who he can feel more. He poses the idea that it is linked to the stages of his tattooing, and Derek, perched on the sofa behind Scott, nods thoughtfully.

"Deaton mentioned something like that with his own tattoos. Sudden increase of power. Heightened mental connections, tingly skin?" Derek rises from the sofa gracefully and pads barefoot to the kitchen, fetching a glass of water and pressing it into his hand. "Drink. You aren't used to the power."

Stiles sips the water as Scott and Derek bandy about theories of why the tattoo is the cause, and Stiles suddenly remembers they haven't even seen it yet. Despite his earlier wish that it not be seen until finished, he finds himself telling them the various parts of the protections woven into his ink, and Derek churns out idea after idea, especially when Stiles mentions runes, of protection and healing. After a while, Stiles is tired, and slouches in on himself where he sits, dozing off while Derek talks. He briefly has a moment of fondness, that he experimentally sends down the pathway that is already there for Derek, though it hasn't been amplified by the tattoo as of yet. Derek pauses mid sentence, and stares at Stiles. He narrows his eyes, and suddenly Stiles feels a big pulse of affection from the bond, widening his eyes. He smiles at Derek, happy in the fact that what he can do isn't just a one way thing.

Sooner or later, he falls asleep, lulled by the steady rumble of Derek and Scott talking. He wakes a few hours later, slumped uncomfortably against Derek, sore parts of his tattoo aggravated by the contact, so he shifts away slightly and smiles as a snufffling man pats around for him, mumbling slightly in his sleep. He wriggles so he is both pressed against Derek again and comfortable, and the man quiets down, turning to bury his nose in Stiles neck.

Three weeks later, the remnants of the scabs have fallen off, and Stiles books another appointment.

When the appointment rolls around, Stiles goes back to the parlour, and waves a hand at Adam, who is working on a man who is even bigger than Derek, if that is possible. He plops himself down in a chair to wait, idly drumming on the arm when he gets bored. Half an hour later, Adam wiggles a hand at him, and he leaps up excitedly. The girl at the desk laughs at his enthusiasm and he grins sheepishly, settling in the chair in front of Adam. Stripping his shirt off, he lets Adam wipe an antiseptic on his back, and holds as still as he can while the stencil is lined up carefully with his existing patterning. Adam smoothes it down, and waits for it to set on his skin.

He spends another six hours in the chair, lying on his stomach, suspended in that odd void where pain is pleasurable and comforting.

He pays for the newly completed tattoo, and shakes Adam's hand, thanking him profusely.

The stronger version of the pack bonds don't set in until a week later, and the surge of power is so strong he passes out on the mini golf course.

Derek forces him home to recuperate.

He dodges Scott and Lydia's attacks for the the next two weeks. They consistently jump out at him, attempting to see his tattoo ahead of time.

Every time, he sighs, and feigns boredom.

"Try again." He tells them. They do. Repeatedly.

Eventually, two months after his birthday, his tattoo is completely healed. In his bedroom, he stares at himself in the mirror, turning to see all of the ink.

It is a swirling, intricate, beautiful pattern, looping and spiralling across his skin, delicate black lines. It stands out in stark contrast to his pale skin, and moves gently over his muscles as he flexes.

"Wow." He breathes, astonished. He has found over the last few weeks that he can block the all consuming surge of power he feels from the design, but now, he demolishes the mental wall and stutters in a breath as _everything _fills his mind.

He can see what his pack are seeing. All of them, overlapping, at once. He struggles to settle on one, but fails, and moves on to the next thing instead.

He knows where every single one of them is. Even his Dad and Melissa, who spend little time with the pack in its totality, are shining beacons on the map in his mind. Each beacon has a separate colour, and separate taste associated, a separate feel.

**And he can feel their emotions. **

All of them, good and bad, happy, sad, self hatred, everything tumbles together in his mind, colliding in a confusing vortex of feelings, until he drops to his knees with a gasp and shuts off the flow. He can still feel the knot of power behind his belly button, but it is manageable, and instead of the swamping mess, it is a comforting weight in his stomach.

When he reveals the tattoo later that night, padding around Derek's loft, barefoot and shirtless in the warm spring night, the entire pack stares like he is something precious. Erica traces her finger across her name on his chest, and Scott hugs him so tight he thinks he can feel his ribs creaking. Lydia doesn't say anything at all, but her expression softens, and she twines her fingers into his. Boyd's and Isaac clap him on the back, and he can feel them both shaking with emotion through the bond. Cora just regards him blankly and then launches herself at him, forcing him to catch her and hug her, squeezing as hard with his human strength as he can. Jackson shakes his hand, relaxed and secure in their new found friendship by now.

And Derek? Derek just smiles softly, and doesn't say anything until everyone has left and they are alone. Derek had offered to take Stiles back home after the reveal, when Stiles had shrugged off his shirt when he had arrived, and Derek had tried to conceal that all the air had left his lungs. Stiles is sort of happy that Derek saw the tattoo first.

"It's amazing." He says, clutching a beer bottle in one hand, and tracing a condensation damp finger over the hawk on his shoulder blade. Stiles doesn't think he realises he is doing it, but he doesn't mind. Derek is studying everything he can, quizzing Stiles on which protection runes he used, and the healing ones, and the meaning of the bird that used to be his mother's. Stiles answers all his questions, and leans back into Derek's touch just a little, enough that the man's eager fingers don't sense it.

And then Derek is front of him, drifting a fingertip over the looping, curling script that spells his name on Stiles' chest, and they are kissing. And he has no idea who moved first, but it doesn't matter, and he is cocooned in the affection and love from the bond, that Derek has cranked open all the way on his end, and Stiles does the same, wraps the man in his emotions like he will never get the chance again. Derek's fingers are curled against the wolf on his skin, right where the triskelion marks its flank.

Love tastes like strawberries.


End file.
